


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by darklycomic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1930s, Alternate Universe - 1930s, M/M, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darklycomic/pseuds/darklycomic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of the Prohibition of the 1930s, Michael Shurley, an NYPD cop, and Adam Milligan, a doctor under the employment of a huge crime boss, start a relationship that tests the limits of the world they live in. And when things become far more dangerous than either of them could have ever imagined, it will test them as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Swordfish

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: some sensitive material.

# Chapter 1

March 10th, 1933:

Every man on the force would agree: Michael Shurley was a good cop. He’d started young, graduated from the Police Academy at the top of his class, and many said he’d make detective in his first few years. But Michael was perfectly happy working the vice squad. There were less guns, fewer deranged people, minimal pains in the ass, and at least when the people had guns, you could talk them down. It wasn’t easy, of course, but it certainly wasn’t like homicide division. The best part of vice, in Michael’s opinion, was that once a job was done, it was done. There was no worrying if you had the right guy – you pretty much always had the right guy. These scumbags who ran the brothels and the speakeasies, they all squealed pretty quick – you just had to know where to apply pressure, whether it be their wallets or their bones. It was clear, almost perfected to a science, and Michael liked it that way. Vice was why he had decided to become a cop in the first place.

On this particular morning, the good cop, Michael, would have had some down time at the station as he sat at his desk, if the phrase “down time” had existed any longer in his life. Gabriel Garrison, Michael’s partner, never allowed for it. Gabriel was a good-natured man with a goofy grin that seemed to tuck his jaw into his neck and light brown hair that he kept just a bit too long for anyone on the force’s taste. But he was a decent man and kept spirits high as the squad’s resident practical joker.

“Cup o’ Joe to get those peepers open, Mikey?” Gabriel asked, holding a cardboard cup full to almost the brim in front of Michael’s face. Michael moved his case papers out of the way just in case Gabriel decided to spill anything.

“I’ve asked you not to call me that,” Michael responded wearily as he took the cup from Gabriel’s hand with care. He took a sip of the coffee and felt the heat trickle down his throat to settle in his stomach. A tiny smirk graced his lips. For all of Gabriel’s faults, he still was capable of remembering exactly how Michael took his coffee: almost black, just a dash of half and half to cut out some of the bitterness. Gabriel, on the other hand, loaded his with cream and sugar. It was guaranteed that the two officers would never mix up each other’s coffee, as each cup looked as different as the partners’ personalities.

“Well, gosh, I’m sorry. I go through all the trouble of getting the coffee just how you like it and you just spit in my face. Okay, I see how it is,” Gabriel responded with a wily grin, pushing his slicked back hair into position with one hand before putting his uniform’s hat on with the other.

Michael forced a toothless smile. “Thank you,” he said, a slight growl to his voice. Mornings were Michael’s one enemy and he never understood why he had to be at the station this early; it wasn’t as if any of his jobs took place in the day. No one hired a prostitute or drank this early – no one he knew, anyway.

But tonight was usually when things got crazy. Tonight was Friday night, the one night when every man and woman in New York City went out to find themselves an illegal watering hole – a speakeasy, or a blind pig, usually ran by the lowest of men and quite often hidden in the dingiest of places.

“Okay, gentlemen, let’s get started,” came the voice of a middle-aged man. All the officers in Vice took their seats and the bustle of their voices, papers, and feet died down to complete silence within seconds. The man who entered the room, dressed in a navy blue suit and a matching tie, was Captain Bobby Singer – a veteran officer if there ever was one and the head of the vice squad. Ironically, he took to his own vices on the side, but he was always there, ready to work the morning after.

“So here’s the low down: as all of you know, we’ve stumbled across a big one – the penthouse at the Brittany Hotel. Now I don’t expect any of you idjits to be prepared to take this one on by just barging in like the one on 31st Street, so we’re going in as civilians. Except for Shurley and Garrison.”

Michael’s attention was instantly drawn to Captain Singer, his blue-green eyes suddenly lighting up with the spark of fascination.

“Why’s that, sir?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Well, if you’d let me finish, I might be able to get to that, sweetheart,” came the sardonic response. The other officers chuckled briefly.

“Sorry, sir,” Michael apologized.

“Yeah, alright. As I was saying, Shurley, you and Garrison are going to set the whole thing off. What’s going to happen is you’re going to all trickle in starting at the time the joint opens until about midnight. You will all be patrons at the bar; none of you will drink.”

“And how exactly does that work out?” Gabriel asked, raising his hand high in the air, his feet perched on the back of the seat of the officer directly in front of him. “We’re at a bar, but we don’t drink? That’s not suspicious at all.” Gabriel spread his arms wide and shrugged as if it was some grand gesture, that same old smirk still plastered to his face. Even Michael couldn’t help but let an amused little smile stretch the corners of his mouth. Their smirks fell pretty fast, though, when Singer gave them a look that would scare a snail out of its shell.

“The bartender’s with us. You want to blend in? You ask him for a gin and tonic, and scratch your nose. He gives you water and no one’s the wiser. As for Shurley and Garrison, you two will come to the door at midnight and bust in. As soon as the rest of you guys see these two knuckleheads, you grab the people nearest to you and we’ve cased the joint. That’s it. Then we bring them in for questioning and everything else past that, as usual. You got that?”

“Yes, sir,” was the resounding reply.

“Swell, boys. Now get to work. We’ve got a long night ahead of us,” Captain Singer said. He adjusted his suit jacket and left the officers to their duties.

Michael looked up at the ceiling and sighed. Time to work the beat. He put his own hat on and gestured for Gabriel to follow him out.

“I’m driving today,” Michael said, dangling the key to their squad car in Gabriel’s face.

“You’re sure? Because I believe that last week you told me we’d trade off weeks, which would make today… oh, that’s right – my day,” Gabriel replied, following Michael out of the station. Michael laughed to himself. Their car was parked two blocks away and to get to it required a lot of maneuvering through the bustling New York City crowds. They were mostly tourists, gawking at the skyscrapers and attractions the city had to offer. Michael despised tourists, but Gabriel had a game he liked to play called “look up at a random building, point, and see how many tourists stare as if there’s actually something there,” which both of them found amusing.

This time, Michael played along. He was pulled back into reality shortly after looking up, though, when a golden haired young man in a porkpie hat, maybe five years younger than himself, bumped into him.

“Eyes on the road, officer. That’s how you get yourself trampled,” the young man quipped as he passed, looking back briefly at Michael, who caught his gaze. Michael blinked, then quickly looked the man over before he disappeared into the crowd. He was a handsome fella – that was for sure – but he didn’t seem like he was anyone special, so Michael put the blond man in the porkpie hat out of his mind. He was just another passing stranger.

“Hey, goof! If you don’t keep walking, I’ll steal the keys from you and you’ll walk the beat,” Gabriel called, bringing Michael back to reality. The dark haired officer sighed and quickened his pace to catch up with his partner.

Michael and Gabriel reached their squad car after a short walk full of dodging passing bodies. Michael took the driver’s seat and Gabriel took the shotgun seat, the cheap leather squeaking under their weight and the doors slamming behind them with a hollow click.

“Want to put some tunes on?” Gabriel asked, reaching for the radio dial.

Michael waved it off as if to say ‘do whatever you want,’ so Gabriel pushed the “on” button and adjusted the dial. The sounds of a Bessie Smith song filled the squad car.

“ _Nobody knows you when you down and out… In my pocket not one penny… And my friends I haven't any… But If I ever get on my feet again… Then I'll meet my long lost friend… It's mighty strange, without a doubt… Nobody knows you when you down and out…_ ”

After less than a minute of sitting in awkward silence, listening to the song and not daring to look at each other, Gabriel’s face scrunched up. “Well, that’s depressing,” he said before finishing off his coffee.

“I think it’s nice,” Michael replied.

“It’s dreadful, that’s what that is, fella,” Gabriel said, changing the channel. “Ah, Fats Waller. That’s my kind of cat right there.”

“ _I know for certain the one you love, I'm through with flirtin', it's just you I'm thinkin' of, Ain't misbehavin', I'm savin' my love for you._ ”

Gabriel sang along to the song. Michael just rolled his eyes as they pulled up to a stop sign.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Michael Shurley. I’m sure once you stop putting on the dark and mysterious face, the dames’ll come rolling in. Now let’s get some doughnuts. I’m starving.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Michael replied. The light switched from red to green and Michael made a turn in the direction of their favorite deli, Lindy’s.

Lindy’s was a popular joint, famous for their cheesecake and their strudel, which Michael and Gabriel liked respectively, but in the mornings, the pair always headed to Lindy’s for their doughnuts and coffee. At ten cents for a coffee and doughnut special, it was a real bargain, compared to paying fifteen cents down the road at the Brooklyn Diner.

The bell on the door chimed as the two officers entered Lindy’s. The host greeted them and they headed straight for the stools at the counter.

“Morning, Eve,” Gabriel said with a smile, taking off his hat. The young waitress smiled back, pushing a lock of brown hair behind her ear.

“Good morning, Officer Garrison,” she replied. “The usual?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eve turned to Michael. “What about you, Officer Shurley?”

“I’ll have the usual as well.”

“You got it, boys. Coming right up.” Eve winked at Michael, who responded with a weak smile. Once Eve was out of earshot, Gabriel turned to Michael and nudged him.

“She’s sweet on you,” he said, grinning. “I can’t say I’m not jealous, but go after her. It’s not like she’s gonna bite you. Unless you want her to, of course.”

Michael hid his mouth with his hand, holding in laughter as Eve came over with their doughnuts and coffee.

“What’re you boys laughing about?” she asked, placing the plate in front of them.

“Nothing,” Gabriel replied, winking at her.

“Nothing’s pretty funny, then, huh?”

“Pretty funny.”

“Okay, then. Can I get you anything else?”

Michael shook his head, uncovering his mouth. “No, thanks, Eve. I think we’re all set here,” Michael said, putting a dime on the table to pay for the food. Gabriel paid in pennies.

“Sorry, Eve, I gotta unload these somehow,” Gabriel said, watching as Eve collected the coins in her hand, rolling her eyes and walking away.

Michael dunked his donut in his coffee and took a bite. Gabriel shook his head. “I don’t get you, Mikey,” he said, his eyes locked on Eve as she headed towards the cash register.

“Yeah. Me neither,” said Michael.

\- - -

Michael and Gabriel were exhausted with boredom by ten o’clock that night. They had passed some time earlier, cruising the streets for any action they could throw themselves into, but things were uncannily quiet and there were no distress calls that they were on the first responders list for, so the day had truly dragged on. Michael parked outside of an antiques shop just across the street from the Brittany Hotel and the two officers took turns napping as they waited for midnight to roll around.

With only 30 minutes to spare, Gabriel was asleep in the shotgun seat and Michael was daydreaming as he kept watch. The man who had bumped into him earlier in the day had been on his mind. He kept replaying the scene in his head, trying to remember the man’s face. It was a one-time encounter, that was for certain, but Michael couldn’t help but wish he’d be able to see him again. Nothing was going to come of it, but there was something about the guy’s face – he wasn’t sure what it was. Did he know him? Had he arrested him before? Michael felt stupid for caring so much, but the guy had really ticked him off – wasn’t that reason enough to have him on his mind this long? Michael thought of all the things he could have said back – all the witty comebacks, all the snarky comments he thought of just a little too late. He smirked. How he would have loved to had said these things!

Gabriel yawned and looked over at his partner.

“What are you all smiley about?” he asked, that ever-present smirk returning to his face as soon as he had completely regained consciousness.

“Nothing,” Michael said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just daydreaming.”

“And?”

“And nothing. It’s not important. Just thought of something.”

Gabriel sighed. “You are an enigma, Michael.”

Michael didn’t respond immediately, he just checked his watch. “Five more minutes, then we head in,” he said, eyes on the door of the hotel. He watched as a classily dressed elderly couple entered the building.

Gabriel answered back by opening the door on his side and stepping out of the squad car, stretching his limbs.

“Okay, well, I’m ready,” he said, his voice straining as he stretched his arm upwards and back, his joints creaking and popping slightly from being stuck in one position all day. Michael shrugged his eyebrows and exited the squad car as well. He looked across the top of the car over at Gabriel.

“If we don’t get shot tonight, I’m taking you to another speakeasy, getting some giggle juice in you, and you’re going to spill what was on your mind all day today,” Gabriel said, jabbing a finger at Michael.

“Well, then I better hope we get perforated, because I’m not telling you anything,” Michael replied with a laugh.

“You’re telling me you would rather be turned into Swiss cheese than tell me?” Gabriel exclaimed in disbelief.

“It’s easier than what would happen after I told you,” Michael said grimly.

Gabriel cocked an eyebrow. “You actually think I’m a horrible person, don’t you?”

“I never said that.”

“Then why in the world would you say something like that?” Gabriel asked, walking around to Michael’s side of the car. “You don’t trust me.”

Michael felt like he didn’t have an answer. He stood there in silence for a bit, his gaze cast down to the pavement. “I just think you wouldn’t understand,” he finally replied, bringing his gaze back up to eye level, but still unable to look his partner in the eye.

“Try me.”

In that moment, Michael almost said it. He almost uttered the words. He even opened his mouth to form the first syllable. The first word even passed his lips. “I’m…” But the second word changed, Michael’s famous emotional wall rebuilding itself in record time. “…sorry. I’m sorry, it’s personal.”

“Alright, fella. But I’m your pal – you know that. You can talk to me. That’s what being partners is about,” Gabriel said, giving Michael a playful jab in the chest. “Communication.”

Michael smiled, letting out a small chuckle.

“See? Better already. Now are we gonna case this joint, or are we gonna case this joint?” Gabriel said, pulling his police issued .38 Colt from his holster and checking the rounds.

“You really think we’re going to need that in this place?” Michael asked, reaching tentatively for his own gun.

“Not likely, but better safe than sorry, I always say,” Gabriel replied, spinning the cylinder back into place. Michael nodded in response and checked his own gun.

“Alright. Let’s go,” the dark haired officer said, leading the way across the street.

The Brittany Hotel had a small lobby, barely the size of your average studio apartment. It wasn’t some grand, swanky place where all the celebrities hung out – no, the Brittany Hotel was a hangout for the middle class, with a small dining room, three elevators – one of which was almost always out of service, and rooms that were nothing really special. What was special about the Brittany, though, was its reading room upstairs in the penthouse. The Brittany was home to an extensive library, mostly made up of books donated by wealthy investors, with rich green suede cushions on the mahogany chairs which had been imported from France. The lamps were all fashioned out of stained glass from Italy, and the tablecloths were hand-embroidered silk from China. But the bookcases were the most important of all. They weren’t fashioned from mahogany and they weren’t decorated ostentatiously, but they were the reason that the New York City Police Department, Vice Division, had taken such an interest in the hotel.

The bookcases were lined with hundreds of books, ranging from Dickens to Hemingway, and Shakespeare to Twain. Among these books was a particularly worn-looking copy of Dante’s “Divine Comedy” sitting on the left side of the middle bookcase. No one ever took this book out to read – not because they did not want to, but because it was physically impossible (an irony in itself). One would only ever pick this particular book if they wanted to enter a room behind the bookcase. The copy of the book acted as a door handle and opened the hidden door that was, in fact, cleverly disguised as the center bookcase. Upon pulling on the Divine Comedy, you would find yourself in a small room with one door in front of you. To get through this door, you would have to knock, and give the man behind the door the password. Then and only then would you be allowed into the swankiest speakeasy New York City had ever seen – The Inferno Club, an all-too-obvious reference to the book that led you there in the first place.

Knowing these directions, Michael and Gabriel entered through the hidden door and knocked on the door to The Inferno Club. A small window on the door opened and a man appeared on the other side. Live jazz flowed through the tiny window.

“Hello, gentlemen. Password please?” he asked, his voice husky, like he’d had one too many cigars.

“Swordfish,” Gabriel quipped, then kicked in the door, sending the man behind it crashing into a table. The jazz band that had been playing stopped, the beautiful African American songstress in the red sequin dress looking more frazzled than anyone else in the room. Michael and Gabriel entered and it didn’t take more than a second before the place was in a panic. But the plan went off without a hitch and within a brief moment, each and every person in that speakeasy had a plainclothes officer holding onto them, keeping them in their seats.

Well, all but one. One man had jumped behind the bar and was attempting to sneak his way behind Michael, but the taller officer was having none of that. He whirled around, his gun trained on the young man.

“Freeze! Hands in the air!” Michael shouted, causing the man to flinch. The man turned around to face him and their eyes met. Michael’s jaw opened slightly as he drew in a breath. He cut his look of shock off quickly, though, returning his expression to the cold, stern one that he wore for the job.

“I see you didn’t get trampled this morning, officer,” the young man said, a nervous smile coming over his face as he slowly raised both hands in an act of surrendering.

Michael didn’t respond. He only gestured with his gun for the man to get back in the center of the room with everyone else. The young man complied, walking slowly back into the room.

“Alright, ladies and germs, we’re going to make this quick. You’re all going to be led out by your new friends, and we’re all going for a trip to the station. You’ll probably all get off with just a fine, but if you resist, we’ll have you in there for at least a night and, believe me, you don’t want to spend a night in the doghouse. Understand? Good!” Gabriel said, addressing the crowd. The patrons of the speakeasy grumbled a response.

The blond man whispered something under his breath.

“What’d you just say?” Michael asked, grabbing him by the collar.

“Careful there, officer… Shurley,” the man replied, glancing down to check Michael’s nametag. “I wouldn’t want you taking a rap for police brutality.”

Michael fumed, his hands balling into fists as he released the man with a bit of a shove. He’d heard exactly what the other man had said: “Goddamn self-righteous badges.” That was probably the worst insult anyone could throw at Michael, personally. He took pride in his job and in what the badge represented for him. He liked to think of himself as one of those heroes from the comic strips in the daily papers – saving people and serving justice. For someone to walk all over that was to smirch everything he believed he stood for.

“Let’s get them out of here,” Michael said to Gabriel. “Before I give this one a shiner.”

“You got it, Michael,” Gabriel replied. “Alright, boys, let’s transfer the cargo.”

The officers led the speakeasy patrons out of the hidden room and back into the main part of the hotel. The people occupying the penthouse, no doubt were a bit shocked to see everyone being led out in cuffs. Most sat there, a bit slack jawed, while others pressed their noses further into their books, not wanting to pry.

\- - -

It was two in the morning by the time they had all the patrons processed back at the station. All but one had been all too eager to give up any information they knew about the whereabouts of the owner of this particular speakeasy. 

The fair-haired young man was now in a holding cell for a rap of obstruction of justice. The District Attorney, a fair (if not slightly paranoid) man by the name of Frank Devereaux, would have him out by morning, of course – it had been a first time minor offense, so there would be no reason for him to stand trial. The charges would be dropped by noon the next day. Everyone knew that.

But Michael, convinced he could crack the guy, approached the man’s cell, walking slowly but deliberately, as if his stern gaze alone would scare the man straight.

“You know, it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile, Michael – can I call you Michael?” the man said, smirking. Michael’s nostrils flared as he glowered at the prisoner. “Aw, don’t give me that face. I’m in here because of you. We can at least get on a first name basis.”

Michael chuckled bitterly. “Okay,” he said, leaning his back against the wall opposite the holding cell, his arms folded across his chest. “What’s your name?”

“Milligan,” the man replied. “Adam Milligan.”

“Well, Milligan-Adam-Milligan, you can take your first name basis and shove it where the sun don’t shine,” Michael said, scowling.

“You’re being awfully hostile towards a guy who saved your life this morning, officer,” Adam replied, picking a bit of dirt out from under his nail. “You guys should really have this holding cell cleaned. It’s disgusting.”

“I don’t mind it.”

“You don’t have to sleep in it.”

“Precisely.” Michael smirked smugly. “And, in that case, maybe you should think about telling me what’s going on with the fellow running the blind pig we just caught you at.”

Adam scoffed. “I’m not quite that desperate yet, Officer.”

Michael smiled inwardly. Adam was afraid of whoever this man was, which meant the man had power – he wasn’t the usual type of slimebag the NYPD Vice Division worked on finding. This was a power player. Michael decided to take a stab at it. There were only five or so major players in Manhattan and none of them ever moved out of their designated regions unless there was a turf war going on and if there were a turf war going on, the NYPD and the rest of New York would all know it. It was safe to assume they were in peaceful times as of eight months ago.

“Maybe you should be. My guys have already got eyes on our prime suspect,” Michael said.

“Oh yeah? Who’s that?” Adam replied. Michael bit his lower lip. This “Adam” sure was an arrogant little grunt. “Because, let me tell you, it isn’t who you think it is,” he added, running a hand through his hair.

Michael played along, watching Adam intently. Years of being an interrogator had taught him well. “Oh? How can you be so sure?”

Adam crossed his arms in front of his chest. “There aren’t so many people like him in the world. My advice? Just leave him alone – maybe he’ll be there to help you out one day,” he said, shrugging.

Bingo. Adam was so cocky that he’d given him the whole setup all in one try. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Milligan. You just gave me all the information I needed.”

Michael had never seen a face fall quite as quickly as Adam’s had in that moment. It was as if his entire being had been shattered, the pieces laying in an anxious frown that formed on his face.

“What? I… I didn’t tell you anything! You know how I know you’re bluffing? Because that’s what self-important badges like you DO!” Adam said, his shoulders rising slightly as his body tensed.

Michael stepped forward, quick as a whip, and slammed his hand on the bars of the cell, getting up close and personal with the haughty little grunt who was currently in his possession, his face curled up into a snarl.

“No. You told me everything. You just confirmed what I had originally thought. Body language doesn’t lie, even though you might, you ungrateful son of a bitch,” Michael said, then turned to leave, the snarl transforming back into his usual stone face.

“Ungrateful?!” Adam exclaimed, almost incredulously. “Why should I – Cops are pieces of shit – always have been, always will be! It’s a low man who calls another man’s mother a bitch!”

But Michael was already out the door.

Michael made a sharp turn down the hall, making his way as quickly as he could to Captain Singer’s office. This new information was exactly what they needed in order to track down the man who was running the operation. And he knew exactly who it was now.

Captain Bobby Singer’s office was relatively small. It had just enough room for two bookcases, a desk, a chair, and a fan for those hotter days, and the single window overlooked Lexington Avenue. Bobby could usually be found sitting behind his desk, either answering multiple phones at once, or chin-deep in piles of paperwork and case files. When he wasn’t working (which was rare), he’d pull out the flask he kept hidden in his sock. Surprisingly, he had never gotten caught.

Well, not until Michael burst into his office.

Michael had entered at the exact moment Bobby had put the flask to his lips, prompting Michael’s eyebrows to raise in amused surprise and Bobby to give him a defiant: “What? It’s not like you’ve never broken a rule or two.”

Michael chuckled and shook his head. “Actually, I never have, sir,” he said. “But I’ll let it slide,” he added with a wink.

“First time for everything…” Bobby said, rolling his eyes as he stuck his flask back in his sock. “So what did you manage to get out of him?”

“Everything, sir.”

Bobby looked shocked. “You mean he just confessed?” he asked.

“Not exactly…”

Bobby shook his head. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that, Shurley.”

“He told me who it was, but he didn’t tell me,” Michael offered.

“Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Michael shifted his weight on his feet a bit. His methods were questionable since the science was so new, but Bobby was a progressive thinker like him. Maybe he would go for it.

“I pretended that I knew exactly who he was working for and he crumbled under the pressure.”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” Bobby asked. “Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical. So it’s who we thought, huh?”

Michael nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. Which means we can’t convict him.”

Bobby stood up, grabbing his coat. “No, but we can sure as hell arrest him and see what we can get out of him. Do me a favor, Shurley.”

“What’s that?”

“Go get your partner. I want the both of you there. I’m putting out the call: an arrest warrant for one Dick Roman.”


	2. Turandot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore/death trigger warning
> 
> Thanks to LeeAnn for her help in polishing up this chapter a bit!

# Chapter 2

On the Upper West Side overlooking Central Park is a building known as The Regal. The Regal has been standing since the 1890s, and some superstitious folks say that it is one of the most haunted buildings known to man. Legend has it that the 14th floor is filled with the ghosts of poor bastards who met an untimely end at the hands of the most famous crime boss in New York City history: Dick “The Leviathan” Roman, so named for his invincibility when it came to his record – twenty arrests, zero convictions – and for his ruthlessness when it came to those who crossed him, or even those who got in his way. Dick, who owned The Regal and had filled it with his associates, considered himself a businessman first and foremost, and indeed he did have his hands in a multitude of businesses, both legal and otherwise. His charisma was unmatched and it didn’t hurt that the man wasn’t hard on the eyes, either. He stood at a somewhat intimidating six-foot-one, always kept a bit of a smile on his lips, even when it might not be appropriate, and looked as though he could be your handsome next-door neighbor (who just happened to have a few corpses to dispose of). Dick held strongly to the belief that these facts simply enhanced the common notion that he was a man afraid of no one and feared by all – and that wasn’t completely untrue. There were rumors that went around about the man that were reserved for the most frightening of nightmares, especially the rumor that Dick had the capability to force a man to eat himself. No one knew for sure if these rumors held any truth, but the fact of the matter was that people knew that these rumors had to come from somewhere; people couldn’t just make these things up.

At the same time that the New York Police Department was shutting down The Inferno Club, Dick Roman was dropping the needle of his phonograph on an Enrico Caruso record, and Edgar Roman, Dick’s younger brother and underboss, was forcing a middle-aged man to his knees in front of Dick. Edgar wasn’t as well known as Dick, but he could be just as ruthless, if in a more physical manner. The younger Roman certainly had more bodily prowess and strength than Dick, but that didn’t seem to matter much. Dick was never one to get his hands dirty anyway – that was Edgar’s rag. Both men might have been psychopathic, seeing as they enjoyed watching the people they whacked suffer, but Edgar was the one who liked to cause the suffering, while Dick seemed to like to direct it and toy with his victims a bit before they were allowed to die. It was a dynamic that worked surprisingly well and the Roman family benefited from that.

“Don’t you just love opera?” Dick said, the tenor Caruso’s voice emanating from the phonograph on his desk. “The swell of the music, the clarity of the singing voices… it’s all quite beautiful, I think.”

The crime boss turned to face his latest deserter. “Do you know what opera this is from, Raymond? It’s from Turandot by Giacomo Puccini. He never finished writing this opera – old codger died before he could, and then one of his students finished it – but the part Puccini wrote is all we really care about, right?” 

This was Dick’s favorite part of getting revenge – getting to play with his victims and making them suffer, anxiously waiting for the grand finale – and everyone knew it.

“Please… please don’t kill me, boss,” the middle-aged man begged, already sniveling and groveling before Dick’s feet. “Please, just one more chance. I have a wife – kids! Who will provide for them if I’m –”

“Raymond, I’m gonna stop you right there,” Dick said, his lips curling into an eerily pleasant smile. “Not because your story touches me – which it does, don’t get me wrong – but because I want you to consider something. I want you to use that albeit small brain in your head and think about how many times I’ve been in this position before. Would you like to take a guess?”

The man named Raymond gave Dick an anxious glance before shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders. Dick sighed, and as if on cue, Edgar threw a punch into the side of Raymond’s face, all hard knuckles connecting with aging flesh and bone, letting out a resonant crack. The middle-aged man nearly collapsed, and probably would have if Edgar hadn’t steadied him.

“That was more of an order and less of a suggestion, Raymond. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have been more clear,” the crime boss said, picking a bit of dirt from under his nail and looking exceedingly uninterested. “So, would you please estimate how many times I have dealt with men in your current position?”

“Uh… maybe fifty?” Raymond offered, his jaw throbbing in pain with each syllable.

Dick looked somewhat impressed. “Forty-seven, actually – but not bad, Ray. Perhaps you should gamble more often,” he said, patting Raymond’s already aching jaw. “Just not with my money, alright? Take this encounter as a word of caution.”

Raymond nodded, even cracking a small smile. “Alright, boss,” he managed to say, his voice cracking a bit as his heart rate began to return to normal.

Dick’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t fire warning shots. Edgar, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Raymond’s face didn’t even have time to fall before Edgar had pulled out his M1911 pistol and shot him through the back of his head at point blank, obliterating the man’s face, and destroying any chances of identifying him through dental records. Raymond died instantly, hitting the floor.

“Edgar…” Dick said, pinching his sinuses as he attempted to keep his cool. “You are my brother, and I love you, but for the love of God, learn to snap a neck occasionally. I just had these floors cleaned.”

Edgar shrugged. “I’ll call in a cleaner,” he said, getting a couple of soldiers who were hanging back to pick up the corpse. “Take the body to the closed-off alleyway behind the building, cut it into six pieces, and get the pieces to Jack Montgomery. And, whatever you do, don’t get pulled over,” he instructed them.

Edgar watched as the two men nodded, enveloping the corpse in plastic wrap and dragging it out of the room. The younger Roman brother was a man of few words. He let his brother do the talking, seeing as that was more his thing anyway. Dick had been given the gift of gab, and Edgar felt no reason to be envious of this. Talking it out just wasn’t his style.

“Jack Montgomery…” Dick mused. “Where do I recognize that name from?”

“He’s the one with the pigs, Dick,” came a female voice from behind him. 

Recognizing the voice, Dick turned around, a genuine smile on his face. The woman to whom the voice belonged was Dick’s sometimes assistant and full-time lover, Susan Cheng. Susan was a tall, beautiful Chinese-American woman whose family had emigrated from China to America when she was still in the womb. She stood at a neat 5’8” and, in heels, could be almost as tall as Dick himself. Though highly intelligent, Susan found very few employment opportunities due to discrimination against both women and her race, so she turned to a life of crime in her teens, stealing whatever she could whenever she needed it. She had become a very successful pickpocket in that respect, which was what had caught Dick’s attention in the first place.

“Hello, doll face,” Dick said, wrapping an arm around Susan’s waist possessively. “Now… what were you saying about pigs?”

“I was saying that Jack Montgomery is the one with the pigs in Poughkeepsie. You know, the ones who’ll eat anything as long as it’s in the trough?”

Dick’s expression changed into one of complete realization, though he wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to know exactly what that meant. Unfortunately, he was pretty sure he understood the implications of that statement.

“They’ll eat… anything, huh?”

“That’s what Jack says, at least. He starves them, and then they… well, I’d rather not say if that’s alright,” Susan said, visibly sickened by the knowledge of what happened once the pieces of a corpse reached the pig trough.

“Yeah, that’s perfectly alright, sweetheart,” Dick replied, the mental image affecting him as well. He may have been a fourth degree murderer, but he wasn’t immune to feeling nauseous at the most cruel and unusual means to an end. “Remind me to tell the man he’s a sick fuck, but that I love him anyway when I see him next.”

Susan chuckled. “I’ll put it in writing,” she joked, planting a kiss on Dick’s cheek.

A stomach-turning squish was heard from the alleyway, followed by a loud snapping sound. Dick and Susan turned to the window behind them to see where the sound had come from, only to see the two cronies who had been sent to deliver the corpse in the middle of separating the first leg from the corpse. Susan covered her mouth and Dick sighed deeply. His frustration with his men had been mounting all night and this was the last straw. He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the payphone on the street by the alleyway.

The phone rang three times down on the street before Victor and Pete, the two men who had been sent to clean up after their bosses, realized that this call was meant for them. Dick never called unless they were going to get torn a new one. After a quick game of rock-paper-scissors, the defeated Victor picked up the phone and spoke tentatively. “Hello?”

“Do you two imbeciles realize exactly how much noise you are making down there? I am not paying you to get me implicated in murder – I’m paying you to keep me out of it! You have axes and knives and other perfectly acceptable sharp objects. Use them! And I recommend that you chop quietly or I will have two more bodies to deliver to Poughkeepsie!” Dick growled on the other end.

“Boss, we –“

“Don’t respond to me, you bottom-feeding piece of shit. Just cut up the body and get it off my property!” Dick snapped, cutting Victor off. Victor heard the slam of the telephone on the other end as the connection was cut off.

“Yes, sir,” he muttered sarcastically.

“One day, I swear to God, Vic, we are going to end up just going off the deep end because of this guy. I did not sign up for this,” Pete said as he finished wrapping up the individual leg they had just severed. “Now, I do not mind making some extra cash, but this seems morally reprehensible. I think men like us go to hell for this sort of thing. What do you think?”

“I think that if we do not remove ourselves and this body from the premises very soon, we will end up in the clink, which may very well be worse than where our souls will end up when we die. So, that being said, I think you should shut your yap and get cutting, Pete,” Victor responded sardonically. “That’s what I think.”

Victor rolled his eyes and lifted his axe high, then brought it down to separate an arm from the already mangled corpse. Blood squirted from the stump where the arm used to be attached and stained Victor’s shirt.

“Shit!” he hissed, licking the pad of his thumb and attempting to get the stain out. However, no matter how he tried, he only succeeded in worsening the stain.

“I had better drive. If we get pulled over and the cops see that…” Pete said, holding out his hand for the keys.

Victor squinted his eyes at Pete, his jaw hanging slightly agape, his expression amounting to condescending disbelief.

“When my grandmother rises out of the grave and comes to me asking for a slice of Lindy’s cheesecake to take back to Heaven with her, THAT is the day that you will drive the car. Until then – fuck you!”

“Did you come up with that all by your lonesome self?”

“Shut up.”

After some hacking and wrapping, the two men were able to stuff the six pieces of what used to be Raymond into the trunk of their Ford V-8 Cabriolet and drove off in the direction of Poughkeepsie, New York. Luckily for them, they were out of sight before Captain Singer and a team of vice officers including Michael and Gabriel could see them, as the squad cars were approximately three blocks away and approaching The Regal at an alarming speed.

The cars pulled up, tires screeching to a halt, forming a semicircle around the front door of The Regal. The sounds of sirens filled the dimly lit street and blue and red lights flashed across the building’s façade. From up on the 14th floor, Dick Roman didn’t even have to look outside to know he was surrounded.

“I wonder what it could be this time,” he mused aloud. “Susan, be a dear and let my guests in. I don’t need them breaking down my door.”

“Right away,” Susan replied, the skirt of her burgundy dress fluttering about her legs like curtains by an open window as she walked out the door and into the waiting elevator. 

Downstairs, Michael and Gabriel climbed out of their squad car, following suit with the rest of the officers who had joined them and Captain Singer on their operation.

“Now, remember gentlemen, we’re here to bring him in, so let’s not start any firefights if y’all can help it,” Bobby said, adjusting his tie. “Squad A, you’re going in. Squad B, you’ll hang back with me as backup.”

“Geez… you think his place is big enough?” Gabriel quipped, nudging Michael in the arm as the pair stared up at the building. They each silently surmised that it must have been at least 50 stories tall, a slightly slack-jawed look on their faces.

“Yeah…” Michael said, before snapping himself out of his awed trance and focusing on the front door.

“Alright, let’s get his attention,” Gabriel said, picking up the megaphone attached to the car. “Mr. Dick Roman! This is the New York City Police Department! Please come out with your hands up. Failure to do so within three minutes will be regarded as a threat and we will be forced to enter with…” Gabriel’s voice trailed off as he saw Susan come to the door, holding it open with one foot.

“Mr. Roman requests the presence of the Captain and his Lieutenant in his office. He is ready and willing to speak and make negotiations,” she said, a devious little smirk on her dark red lips. Susan stood in the doorway, eyeing Captain Singer as if trying to read his mind to find out who was the Lieutenant.

Bobby sighed and glanced over at Michael.

“I hate to do this to you without warning, Shurley, I really do… but this department has been short a Lieutenant for long enough and it’s high time you moved out of the little leagues. So, I’m making you Lieutenant. Congratulations, I guess,” Bobby said, awkwardly scratching at his beard in his anxious state.

“You’re pulling my leg – right, Captain?” Michael asked, his expression composed of one part confusion and one part worry.

“I’m not, Lieutenant. I need my best cops in positions of power. Now, please, don’t question my authority anymore and follow me into the building. We’ve got to bring this guy in,” Bobby responded, his jaw tightening as he shut Michael down.

Michael nodded, unhappy, but steadfast in his loyalty. He was, of course, a good cop. He would do what he was told, he would take his orders and act on them, never once wavering or shirking.

Michael looked back at Gabriel who stood there just as dumbfounded as the rest of the officers that Captain Singer would act on such impulse. Gabriel hadn’t wanted the job, either, but he certainly wouldn’t have protested as much as Michael probably was internally. Michael furrowed his brows in a silent apology and Gabriel just nodded, an affirmation that all was well, though in the coming days it probably would not be so fantastic. Gabriel would need a new partner and a man good enough to replace Michael would be hard to find.

But that was the last thing on everyone’s minds. They needed to stay on task.

Michael and Bobby followed Susan into the building and waited by her side silently as they rode the elevator up to the 14th floor.

“I would have expected Mr. Roman to be on the top floor,” Bobby commented.

“Mr. Roman dislikes great heights,” Susan explained, though she was hardly convincing. Michael sensed there was another reason for Dick Roman to occupy the 14th floor.

“I guess he doesn’t like the new Coney Island Cyclone very much, then,” Michael quipped. Bobby let out a snort of laughter, but Susan looked anything but amused.

“I doubt he would,” she replied, a scowl beginning to form on her face in defense of her lover.

The elevator doors opened with a soft, high-pitched pinging sound and Susan strode quickly out of the elevator, ahead of Bobby and Michael. She opened the door to Dick Roman’s office, which was dimly lit with table lamps. The blood on the floor had been cleared away, but the stench still hung in the air somewhat. It wasn’t enough you’d be able to identify the scent, but enough that you’d notice something smelled different.

“Welcome, Captain Singer,” Dick said, a smile stretching across his face. He glanced over at Michael, whose brow remained on the furrowed side at the sight of the crime boss. “And this must be your new Lieutenant. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, outstretching his arm to shake hands with Michael. Michael didn’t budge, leaving Dick hanging, until Bobby gave Michael a disapproving look. This may have been dirty, but it was still business.

“I don’t usually get dirty with swine, but I’ll make an exception for such a clean-seeming pig,” Michael taunted, shaking Dick’s hand and squeezing it roughly.

“Yikes, Singer. Please tell me you have a sturdy leash for your dog,” Dick commented, retracting his hand and massaging out the pain of the unnecessarily strong handshake with his other hand.

“My apologies, Mr. Roman. He’s… very new,” Bobby said, looking reproachfully at Michael, who seemed a little too pleased with himself for hurting the crime boss.

Dick let out a soft “hmm” in understanding. “So tell me, Lieutenant: how are you liking the new position?”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, Roman,” Michael snapped. “You know why we’re here. Why are you acting like we’re relatives visiting from out of town?”

Dick scoffed, amused. “Well, you certainly have got a mouth on you, haven’t you, boy? Careful now. I might have to wash it out with soap.” Dick sneered. “But I do suppose I have to hand it to you. You found out that it hypothetically could have been me behind the Inferno Club. There was only one man of mine in that club tonight, though. Perhaps you should have been more careful about when you chose to barge in on me, Captain. We wouldn’t want anyone to be put in danger, would we?” He added, feigning worry briefly before chuckling softly.

Michael froze up, his expression falling. As bad as this Adam kid seemed, he certainly didn’t deserve to die at Roman’s hands. And he couldn’t help feeling a little bit guilty about putting Adam in danger.

“So, since I know why you’re here, let’s just get this over with,” Dick continued, holding out his wrists. “You don’t have any real evidence, but I hypothetically confessed to you, so it’s… ‘probable cause,’ right? Did I get the terminology straight?”

Michael turned to Bobby, his browed knitted in deep thought.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Michael said quietly. “It feels too easy. Why would he just give in like that?”

“He knows he can’t be held for more than 48 hours. That’s why,” Bobby said.

“What’s the hold up?” Dick called, stretching his arms out to the Captain and his Lieutenant. “I thought this was what you were here for.”

Michael nearly turned around to shout back a fiery retort, but Bobby placed a hand on the younger man’s arm and shook his head. “Ignore him. He’s just trying to rile you up because that’ll give him a reason to put out a call for your head.”

“Yeah, but… look at him. It’s like he wants to be taken in. I wouldn’t do it. There has to be a reason he’s so eager to come with us.”

Bobby sighed. “Alright. We’ll put some extra manpower on him and the doors. But we have to take him in. If something comes up while he’s in the clink, we’ll have him already under our thumb.”

Michael nodded, understanding. He unhinged a pair of cuffs from his belt and stepped towards Dick, slapping the cold metal down on the crime boss’s wrists.

“Well, that’s more like it, Lieutenant Shurley. And may I say: congratulations on a fine arrest,” Dick said, and then cringed as Michael dragged him along by the back of his collar. “Mind the suit, though, please. I just had it pressed.”

Michael bit down on his tongue so as to prevent himself from saying anything he knew he would regret later, then grabbed Dick by the shoulder and led him out.

“Much better,” Dick sneered. “Wouldn’t want you paying for my next dry cleaning bill.”

There was no cheering when Dick Roman was led out of the building, just scornful glares. Each and every man on the force knew exactly what this man was capable of. They knew he wasn’t going to be in their custody for long. They knew he was untouchable.

“Let’s move out, gentlemen,” Bobby said, his voice stern.

Michael walked Dick over to his squad car where Gabriel was waiting, a frown on his usually jolly face.

“Get Dick in the back of the car,” Gabriel said. Michael nodded, pushing Dick’s head down so he wouldn’t bump it on the car going into the backseat. “Take shotgun. If you got the promotion, I at least get to drive.”

“I told you, Gabe, I didn’t want –“ Michael attempted to defend himself, but Gabriel held his hands up in a way as if to say ‘say no more.’

“I know. But, honestly, buddy, if anyone deserved it, it was you. We all knew it was going to happen eventually.”

“I guess,” Michael replied.

The two officers got into the car wordlessly after that and Gabriel turned the key, the engine turning over noisily.

“I couldn’t help but notice the two of you seem to be having quite the lovers’ quarrel,” Dick said, but Gabriel turned around in his seat, his gun pressed up against the metal grating that separated the front and back halves of the car.

“Open your mouth one more time, Roman. I dare you,” he said. “I don’t even care about the consequences of shooting you. I will do it. Don’t doubt me.”

Dick gave them a smug, shit-eating grin. “Oh, I don’t, officer,” he replied, sitting back in his seat as Gabriel turned to face the front once more and led the squad cars back downtown to their precinct.

\- - -

Once back at the station, Dick was brought around to the rear entrance, so as to avoid the reporters who swarmed the doors like a plague of locusts, in hopes of seeing the famous Dick “The Leviathan” Roman in cuffs. They all knew he wasn’t there for good, but to have Dick Roman in police custody was enough to make a story. Only a few reporters were smart enough to try the back door, but a towel had been placed over Dick’s head so as to avoid the cameras’ lenses.

But the back door could not have been a worse choice. The layout of the first floor of the station was such that the closest elevator was all the way in the front, making the staircase the logical choice for transporting the crime boss. Unfortunately the staircase opened up on the third floor to the end of a hallway that contained the majority of the holding cells. Tonight, most of those cells were filled with men who had committed minor misdemeanors, but one cell was the current residence of one Adam Milligan.

“Open gate A. We have one arrestee under escort coming through holding,” Michael announced, removing the towel from Dick’s head. The officer on guard nodded and opened the door. Dick glanced over at the holding cells, his eyes scanning the miscreants inside. Upon seeing Adam, his lips curled into a sneer. He grabbed the bars on Adam’s cell, causing the young blond to flinch and take a step back. In that moment, Dick had all the proof he needed that Adam had been the one to give him up.

“Mr. Milligan. What a coincidence running into you here. I was just thinking about you. We absolutely must make a lunch date,” he said, winking, that sneer turning quite ugly indeed. “I’ll be seeing you, then,” he added as the officer escorting him yanked him away from the bars.

Adam paled, his entire weight sinking into the dusty mattress in his holding cell as he sat, lightheaded and unable to stand. His heart pounded at what he could swear was double time in his chest. He wanted to vomit. He had been so careful about how he’d chosen his words with the officer. How had Michael figured it out so quickly?

Adam looked up at Michael as the young lieutenant passed by, looking back briefly at the younger man in the cell. Their gazes locked for just a few seconds, but that was all the time Michael needed to decode that silent message in the look of absolute terror in Adam’s expression. Dick would get out the next morning and the first thing he would do is put out a hit order on the boy.

Per Bobby’s request, Dick was left in the Captain’s office, under the guard of four officers – two inside, two outside. The two on the outside were Gabriel and a newer vice officer, though one who was showing a lot of promise through his ability to research quickly and act rationally: Sam Winchester, the younger, yet taller of the two Winchester brothers. Dean, the older Winchester, was in homicide division, which provided a comfortable distance for Sam, while Dean was still able to keep a watchful eye on his younger brother.

“You look nervous, kiddo,” Gabriel said, nudging Sam lightly with his elbow. “First time guarding Dick?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, shoving his sweaty hands into his pockets. “Not yours, though, I’m guessing.”

“Nah, this is my third time. Don’t sweat it, kid. Dick isn’t as bad as you’d think. He doesn’t get his hands dirty. And if he wanted out, he’d be out by now. Or he wouldn’t have let himself be captured so easily. If he’d wanted it, this whole place could be up in flames.”

“Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Sam replied, his voice laced with a cool sarcasm.

Gabriel chuckled. “That’s the spirit, Winchester. Grin ‘til you’re done in.”

Sam let out a snort of laughter. “You’re kind of strange, you know that, Gabe?”

“Yeah, but that’s what makes me so great,” Gabriel replied, a jovial grin gracing his face.

There was a silence between the pair, then, and both men looked about with nothing else to say on the topic. Finally Sam spoke.

“So, what now?”

“Now? Now we wait for someone to bring us coffee.”

\- - -

The next morning rolled around and Adam awoke to the unpleasant sound of someone banging loudly on the bars of his holding cell – not that he had gotten such a deep, pleasant sleep on the uncomfortable mattress in the cell, anyway. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned and looked through blurred vision at a figure standing at the open door of his cell.

“You’re free to go,” said a familiar voice. Adam blinked multiple times to clear his vision and slowly but surely, the silhouette turned into the form of Lieutenant Michael Shurley, asshole extraordinaire.

“Sounds like a plan, Stan,” Adam replied, rolling out of bed and retrieving his personal belongings from Michael. He was about to exit when the lieutenant stuck his arm against the wall, preventing passage. “What seems to be the problem now, officer?” he asked, his expression and voice both exemplifying exactly how fed up he was with this whole situation. He just wanted to go home, pack a bag, and flee to Cuba. Was that too much to ask?

“Actually, it’s ‘lieutenant’ now, Mr. Milligan,” Michael replied. He sighed. “We have reason to believe that Dick Roman, who was released earlier this morning due to lack of evidence, has put out a hit order with your name on it.”

“He sure gets around pretty fast, doesn’t he,” Adam commented.

“I’m not quite finished yet. So, in accordance with this new threat, we’re issuing you an escort for your trip home,” Michael added. “That would be me.”

Adam groaned. Great. Another twenty minutes he didn’t need to be spending with this guy and what was he doing? Spending it with this guy.

“I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. You could be crucial in incarcerating –“

“Okay. Okay. Cut the bullshit, blue blood. Just give me, in layman’s terms, what’s going on here. You don’t have to be so goddamn formal.”

Michael actually cracked a small smile at that. Playing lieutenant wasn’t his rag. He’d much rather hold a down-to-earth conversation.

“Fine. You’re going to be escorted to your house so that we know you’ll be safe since Roman wants your blond little head on a platter. We need you safe because you could potentially be a witness to send Roman to the doghouse for good. You don’t have a say in this matter.”

“Well… only because you asked so nicely,” Adam said, giving Michael a bitter smile.

“Come on. Let’s get you home,” Michael replied, turning so as to let Adam through the door.

Michael led Adam silently towards his squad car, fumbling with the keys in his pocket. He knew he was putting his own life in danger just by taking the kid home and that he didn’t have to volunteer for this, but he knew he’d feel guilty if he hadn’t been the one to do it. 

Michael held the door open for Adam, who exited the building just before him.

“That your car?” Adam asked, pointing to the squad car parked directly in front of the building.

“Yeah…” Michael said, a slight suspicion arising in his mind. Had Gabriel really parked it there? That was unusual in itself. Gabriel always put their car a few blocks down. Maybe he couldn’t find a space elsewhere?

As Adam moved towards the car, though, Michael noticed it: the long black cord that almost blended in with the tar on the street. He followed it quickly with his eyes, seeing a man in a costume police uniform with something in his hand. He put the pieces together in an instant and dove in front of Adam, tackling him backwards towards the steps that led up to the entrance just as the car exploded.

The explosion sent metal and glass flying everywhere at high speeds and some struck the new lieutenant in the back as he shielded Adam from the blast.

Gunfire. Lots of it. The NYPD had gone immediately to the scene of the explosion and some of Roman’s men had come out of hiding.

“Lieutenant Shurley? Let’s get you inside! Come on! Get up!” Adam shouted over the gunshots.

Michael wasn’t responding. Adam put two fingers to the lieutenant’s neck to check for a pulse.

He was still alive – unconscious, but alive. Adam cursed under his breath. He’d never meant for anyone to get hurt in this.

“Damn it, man… Why’d you have to pass out on me?” Adam muttered, lifting the wounded lieutenant onto his back and carrying him as fast as he could inside.

“He’s hurt bad! We have to call an ambulance!” Adam yelled to the officer at the front desk.

The officer laughed. “Are you serious, kid? No ambulance is going to come with that serious firefight going on outside.”

Adam gave the officer a few choice words after that, and then dragged Michael’s limp body to the morgue down the hall. Glass from the windows by the entrance broke behind him, shattered by a bullet, just as he pulled Michael into the sealed-off room.

The morgue was chilly. There was no need for heat in this room (“It would only rot the bodies faster,” the medical examiner always said). In the winter, the chill was near unbearable in this room, but it did help slow the flow of blood, which would be helpful for Michael at this point.

Adam couldn’t lift Michael onto a table, so he sat the unconscious man down on a chair facing sideways and pulled his shirt off of him. Adam paused momentarily, surveying Michael’s muscular body. He drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard. The man was out cold. If he touched him it wouldn’t really matter, would it? No one would have to know…

Adam was just about to touch his hand to Michael’s abdomen when the lieutenant blinked, then tried to move. He failed and ended up only groaning in pain.

“Oh, now you wake up!” Adam exclaimed irritably. Michael laughed weakly.

“What are you doing? Jesus, it’s like the North Pole in here. Where the hell’s… my shirt?” Michael asked, wincing as he looked around.

“Don’t move. You’ve got shrapnel stuck in your back and neck. And I’m going to get it out,” Adam explained, slipping on a pair of rubber medical gloves.

“Where the hell did you get those?” Michael asked. “Don’t tell me you took the medical examiner’s gloves!”

“No, they’re mine. I had them in my bag,” Adam replied, disinfecting them with isopropyl alcohol over the sink.

“You just… keep gloves on you at all times? What kind of neat freak are you? Do you even have training in this?”

“I’m a doctor – a surgeon. That’s why Dick had me on staff. So, yes, I do keep gloves on me at all times. Among other things.”

Michael scoffed. “Oh, he just hires doctors now? And you willingly went along with it? How much is he paying you?”

Adam froze at the sink, unable to look at Michael. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Oh, so you’re just stitching up mobsters out of the goodness of your heart now?”

Adam slammed his hand down on the table. “They killed my mother, you piece of shit! You think I want to work for them? You think I really want to live the mobster life? You think I WANT this? They forced my hand! You are just like all the other badges! Self-righteous assholes who can’t see ten inches beyond the tip of their nose, which is always tilted up into the air, I might add, when it isn’t stuck deep in some superior officer’s ass!”

Michael was silenced immediately. “I’m sorry…” he said quietly. “My condolences. I can’t imagine…”

Adam didn’t respond, he just poured the hydrogen peroxide over Michael’s wounds, shooting the lieutenant a fierce glare. Michael responded with a scream in agonizing pain as the peroxide seeped into his wounds, fizzing and bubbling in the blood.

“That’s not even the worst part, I’m guessing,” Michael said, breathing heavily and giving Adam a weak grin.

Adam couldn’t help but let out a tiny laugh, no matter how he tried to hold it in. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel. He was a doctor. He was one of the good guys. You couldn’t hold it against him to find the fact that he was accidentally torturing Michael… kind of funny.

“Yeah…” Adam said, fetching a pair of tweezers from his bag and pouring a little peroxide on them as well. “Normally I would take a little more time cleaning my tools, but you’re bleeding pretty heavily out of this one wound…” Adam explained, holding the tweezers between his ring finger and middle finger as he quickly threaded a suture needle and laid it down on a paper towel before getting to work pulling out the shrapnel.

Michael screamed.

“Oh, quit being a baby, lieutenant. I’ve seen little children sit through worse,” Adam said, gently pulling on the edge of the chunk of shrapnel with his tweezers. Blood seeped out with every tug. “This one’s a doozy…”

Finally, after twenty minutes of pulling, stitching, and uncannily friendly conversation to get him through the pain, Michael was allowed to finally relax.

“I still can’t believe you pulled a piece of the steering wheel out of my neck,” Michael said, shaking his head.

Adam laughed heartily for the first time all day. It felt good. “There are some things you’ll only hear in a doctor’s office,” he replied, smiling. Michael smiled right back. God, how his smile could light up a room! Adam thought he might be able to swear he was looking at an angel.

“Well, thanks…” Michael said, putting his shirt back on. “Hey, you should open up a real practice now that you’re free of Dick’s clutches. Maybe you could –“

The feeling of lips pressing softly on his cheek cut off Michael’s speech. His lips parted slightly in surprise and he looked over at Adam, who had turned beet red, realizing his mistake.

“I… I’m sorry. I’ll just… I’ll go now,” Adam said as he hastily grabbed his things and hurried out the door, leaving Michael alone in the morgue.

Michael stared after him, feeling color coming to his own cheeks. He smiled inwardly.  



End file.
